


You Can Step Twice in the Same River if It's the River Lethe

by spuffyduds



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Didn't use archive warnings because...I don't think it's dub-con exactly, but it could possibly be a bit triggery that way?</p>
    </blockquote>





	You Can Step Twice in the Same River if It's the River Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't use archive warnings because...I don't think it's dub-con exactly, but it could possibly be a bit triggery that way?

The hourglass clicks when Merlin sets it down on the table, and Arthur glances over from the map he's studying, says, "Why did you bring--" then gasps, says, "Merlin, your _eyes_\--what--are you all right?"

And Merlin tells him everything. Such a relief, letting go of all the lies; letting go of the tight rein he keeps on the magic, letting it out until he's glowing all over, until the whole room glows around him. He can _breathe_.

And Arthur, amazingly, just listens. Doesn't argue, sits heavily down on his bed and stares at Merlin through the whole rapid recitation.

"Well?" Merlin says, finally.

"_That_ powerful?" Arthur says.

"I could kill you with a thought," Merlin says, simply. And watches, and yes--when any other man would tense with fear, Arthur _relaxes_. His shoulders lower a bit, his eyelids flutter with something that looks like relief. Arthur's so _tired_, Merlin thinks, of always being the one who's going to win, who _has_ to win, is _required_ to, no matter the cost.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Arthur says.

"Your father, the law--I didn't want to, to split your loyalties."

Arthur nods, then looks up, expression sharpening. "What's different now?"

"Nothing," Merlin says. "But we're done talking about this."

"Oh, _are_ we," Arthur says, finally returning to a familiar sneer. "And _you_ get to make that pronouncement _why_, exactly?"

"Because there's not time," Merlin says. "Because there's something else I need to tell you."

"What could possibly take precedence--" Arthur says, and stops, because Merlin has stepped closer. And closer still, until his knees bump into Arthur's. Merlin reaches down and takes hold of his chin.

"Oh," Arthur says, and then is quiet for a long time, because Merlin's kissing him.

They ease backward onto the bed and kiss and kiss, no sound but wet gasping breaths between them.

Arthur's fingers stroke Merlin's back, gently and then not; he slides his hands up under Merlin's tunic, his shirt, scrapes his nails roughly up and down. Merlin shudders and slams hips down hard into Arthur's, cocks grinding together through layers, too many layers, and Merlin jams his hands in between them, scrambles frantically at the laces of Arthur's trousers.

And then his hand is on Arthur's cock and it's so hot, moving so sweetly through his fingers. Merlin can scarcely stand to move his hand away and Arthur whimpers a protest too, but it's worth it because it lets Merlin get his mouth there instead, lets Arthur slide hot onto his tongue.

He licks and sucks and moans, letting himself get lost in it for a few seconds, but then Arthur's hand, tangled in Merlin's hair, petting sweetly, suddenly _yanks_.

Merlin yelps, Arthur's cock slipping from his mouth, and then Arthur is holding him firmly and looking into his eyes. And despite the pain in his scalp Merlin finds himself impressed. He's seen Arthur, in combat, ignore his own pain--not only to keep fighting, but to _think_, to plan, to suddenly come up with a new tactic--all while bleeding, all while wounded in ways that made Merlin, just _watching_, horrified, weak-kneed, incapable of a single thought.

There are probably quite a few men who can disregard pain. Merlin has never met another who can disregard _pleasure_.

"Why," Arthur says, panting, "Why didn't you tell me _this_?"

And there are so many answers to that one, ranging from "Your father again," to "Because the knights might not follow a prince they snickered at for being besotted with a manservant" to "Doesn't give you an heir, does it?" So many reasons this is a terrible idea that Merlin doesn't give him any of them, just molds cuffs of magic around both Arthur's wrists and slams them to the bed. One hand takes some of Merlin's hair with it.

Merlin bears down on the magic, pins the wrists down hard, and Arthur gives him a look that--doesn't _want_ any answers, a look that's just "thank you."

Arthur says something that's probably "in the trunk;" he's gasping so hard it's difficult to understand, but Merlin doesn't really need to; opens the trunk at the foot of the bed and takes out the bottle of oil.

Merlin pulls Arthur's legs up over his shoulders, and rubs oil gently into him, and every time Merlin's mind presses down harder on the cuffs Arthur arches harder up into his hand in return.

Merlin works him for a while, stretching him slowly, glancing past Arthur to check the hourglass. Finally he slides up Arthur's body, kisses him, presses himself slowly home.

He looks Arthur in the eyes the whole time, lets everything show. Those few precious minutes, while he's rocking into Arthur's body over and over, he doesn't have to lie about anything at all.

When they're done he stands up quickly, lets the cuffs disappear, starts hauling Arthur back into his clothes.

"What are you--why?" Arthur says, batting at him ineffectually, almost giggling. Sleepy and relaxed and playful and nearly irresistible, but Merlin resists.

"You'll find out in a minute," he lies. He yanks Arthur's boots on and shoves him over near the maps, dons his own clothes and boots quickly.

Merlin checks the hourglass and yes, the last grains are sliding through. He closes his eyes, concentrates, calls up the magic; shapes it so, so carefully to the precise length of time; disastrous to go too far or not far enough.

"What are you _doing_?" Arthur says. "Get back over here, you--you mad magician, and let _me_ have a go."

Merlin shivers with want but fights it off, shapes the magic and sends it out.

He opens his eyes and turns warily to Arthur, who's standing by the maps looking blank.

"What--you--something?" Arthur says.

"Bit less comprehensible than your usual orders, _sire_," Merlin says. "Washing your clothes? Polishing your armor? Letting you practice on me with your quarterstaff?"

"I'm...a little tired, I think," Arthur says shakily. He raises a hand and scrubs it through his hair, looks curiously at his reddened wrist when he lowers it again. He takes a step toward Merlin and winces; stops and looks confused.

"All that map-reading, it takes it out of you," Merlin says, and Arthur glares at him. "Why don't you sleep for a bit?" Merlin says. "Nothing you need to do, for a while."

"Yes," Arthur says. "Yes, a little sleep. Would you stay?" and he looks startled to have asked.

"Of course," Merlin says, sinks into the chair. He reaches out and takes the hourglass, slips it back into his bag.

Arthur stretches out on his rumpled bed, eyes Merlin. "Why did you bring an hourglass?"

"It's Gaius's," Merlin says. "I was just...playing with it."

"Prat," Arthur says, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Merlin watches him sleep for hours. Sits there and tells himself how stupid and wretched it was to do this to himself, how entirely unfair it was to do it to Arthur. He is never, ever doing it again.

This time he almost believes it.

 

\--END--


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